


Caelum Lapsum

by whitchry9



Series: Carpe Diem [5]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cabinlock, Epilepsy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Seizures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:43:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, John, and Gladstone take to the friendly skies with MJN air. Of course, a flight with Sherlock can never be just easy. <br/>In which Arthur really wants to pet Gladstone, Martin really wants to just fly, Carolyn wants everyone to make it off the plane in one piece, and Douglas is content to sit by and smirk at whatever happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caelum Lapsum

John arrived home after a visit to Tesco's to find Gladstone suited up and ready to go, with Sherlock no where to be found. Gladstone didn't seem concerned though, so John wasn't.

“Sherlock?” he called, stepping around Gladstone.

The was a muffled reply from Sherlock's bedroom.

John sighed. “What is he doing?” he asked Gladstone, who only wagged her tail. “Come on then,” he said, beckoning her as he headed down the hallway. There was the tapping of claws behind him as he paused briefly at Sherlock's door, then pushed it open.

“Sherlock?” he called again, more quietly this time.

“John?” Sherlock appeared from nowhere, or rather, from out of his closet, hair standing on end and arms full of fabric.

“What are you doing?” John spluttered.

Sherlock ducked his head and muttered something.

John looked at him pointedly.

Sherlock sighed, and repeated it. “Packing. Something you should probably do.”

“Right. Packing. Of course. Where are we going and why?”

“Unimportant,” Sherlock said dismissively, heading back into the closet.

“Unimportant- Sherlock I need to know what to pack! How long are we going to be gone for?”

“Three days?” was the response John thought he heard from the closet.

Shaking his head in disbelief, John headed upstairs, pulled out his duffel bag from under the bed, and began throwing garments into it.

Ten minutes later he stopped by the bathroom to grab some more items, and then popped his head in Sherlock's room again. This time Sherlock wasn't in the closet, but was fighting with a zipper on his suitcase, which seemed rather determined not to close.

“How much stuff are you bringing?” John asked, dumbfounded.

“Essentials,” Sherlock growled, still fighting with the bag as though it were a sentient beast.

John scoffed. “Knowing you, that probably means the skull.” He frowned as Sherlock stilled for a moment. “Oh god!” he moaned. “You are not bringing the skull. No. Give it,” he ordered, holding out his hand.

Sherlock scowled, but handed it over. The zipper closed easily.

“See?” John pointed out smugly.

Sherlock chose to ignore him.

“Are you ready? The flight leaves at five.”

John glanced at his watch. Barely enough time. Typical.

“Yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Come on.”

Sherlock hauled his suitcase behind him as he headed out the door.

“Got your meds?”

“Yes.”

“Take your meds?”

“Yes.”

“Gladstone?”

A bark.

“Excellent.”

 

One of Mycroft's cars was waiting outside. It delivered them to the airport, where they sped through security and got to the gate with time to spare. It was only when John spotted the plane they were supposed to be taking to... he still didn't even know where it was they were going, that he began to have reservations.

“Sherlock,” he said quietly. “What the hell is that?”

Sherlock glanced over to what John was referring. “The plane?” John nodded. “It's a “ Lockheed McDonnell 312.”

John stared at it. “Is it... airworthy?”

Sherlock snorted at him. “While my brother is annoying and overbearing, I hardly think he wants us dead.”

John wasn't so sure.

 

His fears weren't allayed by the crew.

There was a nervous young man who looked almost related to Sherlock, just a foot shorter, who was the captain of all things, and older man who looked more like a captain, who was the first officer, a woman who looked exasperated with them already, and an excited young man, who John wondered if he should be the one looking after them, or vice versa.

 

The captain slunk away after the introductions, and the woman left as well, tutting about runway conditions and flight plans.

The young man looked absolutely thrilled to see Gladstone.

“Oh! A puppy!” He held his hand out for Gladstone to sniff, which she only looked at skeptically.

“Arthur,” the older man scolded. “She's working. Look at her vest. You can't pet her when her vest is on.”

“Oh,” he said, crestfallen. “Sorry,” he said, and John suspected it was more to Gladstone than to Sherlock.

“Perhaps later?” John said, looking to Sherlock for confirmation.

“Perhaps,” he muttered.

Arthur looked thrilled. “Brilliant!” He grinned and ran off to do whatever it was that he did. John had no clue. He hadn't been on a plane this small as a commercial flight before, so he wasn't exactly in the know for how things worked.

 

The takeoff was less eventful than John had expected. They had survived it after all.

The seat belt sign was turned off and John stood up to stretch his legs. Oddly enough, they were the only passengers on the plane which sat sixteen. John only shrugged and assumed Mycroft had some hand in it.

It was Gladstone's first time flying, and Sherlock was more concerned about how she was taking it than about John.

John was torn between feeling hurt, or taking a picture to commemorate this moment.

 

* * *

 

Arthur was around to offer drinks, and looked longingly at Gladstone.

“Later,” John promised.

Arthur brightened and got Gladstone a little bowl to slurp water from.

John had gotten a tea and biscuits and Sherlock had stuck to tea, having eaten yesterday. _Of course,_ John figured. _Don't want to overdo it._

Arthur had just left, called to the kitchen by the woman, when Sherlock looked at John with a serious expression.

“John,” Sherlock said quietly. “I do believe we have a problem.”

Sure enough, Gladstone was pawing at Sherlock and whining insistently.

“Oh damn,” John muttered.

He rubbed his face, going through the options. He hadn't brought any Lorazepam because he knew how difficult it was to get needles on planes, and it was only a short flight. Sherlock had taken his meds that morning, and as far as John could tell, there hadn't been any triggers. He shook his head. There was no time to think about that now, they were running out of time.

He rang the service bell.

It was the woman this time, which John was thankful for.

“Yes?” she said, seeming slightly annoyed, to which John was dismissive.

“Yes, do you have any spot where he could lie down? An open space of any sort?” he asked, gesturing to Sherlock, who was just sitting there staring at the proceedings.

She scoffed at him. “This is an aeroplane, not a football field. If he needs to spread out, he should have hired a limo to drive him.”

John frowned. “No, this is important. He's about to have a seizure and he needs somewhere he won't hurt himself.”

Her face softened. “I see.” Turning away from them, she called “Arthur!” to which the young man came running.

“Yes mum?”

“Gather all the cushions, blankets, and life jackets up and take them to the galley.”

“Right-o! Brilliant!” He grinned as he set off to his assigned task.

The woman, Carolyn as her name tag said, shook her head. “Light of my life, but he is a bit of a daft boy.”

John smiled weakly. He really didn't have time for this, but she seemed to know what she was doing.

He stuffed himself into the row of seats as Arthur rushed by, arms full of blankets and pillows. Carolyn did the same on the other side of the aisle.

“The galley is the largest space there is, but there are still counters. Arthur will pad them and you can sit with him until it's over.”

John nodded. “Thank you.”

She waved a hand at him and waited until Arthur passed by for his second go before speaking, this time in a quieter tone. “Arthur had a few seizures as a boy. It terrified me.”

Arthur came rushing by, arms full of life jackets this time, but paused to look at Gladstone.

“Is she alright? She seems a bit... yippy.”

“Yes Arthur, now hurry!” she urged.

Carolyn rolled her eyes as Arthur passed by.

“You can bring him now,” he ordered John, heading down the aisle herself.

Sherlock scowled at the arm John offered to help him up, and made his way down the narrow aisle on his own, muttering something under his breath all the while.

Arthur stood in the galley, beaming at the assortment of soft things he had procured.

“Spread them out,” Carolyn ordered, and he jumped to it.

“Excellence,” she said when he was done. “Now code red.”

Arthur's face dampened.

“Righto,” he said, and he scurried off.

“Code red?” John asked skeptically as he sat in the pile of cushions and Sherlock grumbled as he folded his limbs in.

“Just a code between us. Means go away, go away now, go away fast. Didn't need him in the way gawking.”

John nodded thankfully.

A sudden growl from behind Carolyn startled her. Gladstone.

“It's alright girl,” Sherlock soothed. “Come here.”

She obeyed, curling up next to his arm.

Sherlock stiffened, and John made sure his head was resting in his lap, there were no sharp edges, and that everything was well enough covered with pillows and blankets.

He looked up at Carolyn, who nodded to him and left.

For that John was grateful. There was no telling how Sherlock would be when he woke up. Once he managed to punch John, somehow convinced he was the enemy. He'd felt awful about it later, and Anderson and Donovan had a giggle about it at a crime scene, wondering if they'd had a domestic. Lestrade shot that down quickly, banishing them to fingerprint duty.

John hoped today it would just be confusion, the normal response to a seizure, rather than one of the weird Sherlockian responses.

Thankfully, today's seizure wasn't a particularly violent one, and John was fairly certain there would be no bruises or broken bones.

 

“Arthur, tea!” a voice called from the flight deck.

John could hear Arthur's response.

“Sorry Douglas, there's a man having a fit in the galley. I can't make any tea right now.”

“For heaven's sake...”

A different voice this time. “Arthur? Carolyn? What's going on out there? Is everything alright?”

“Oh yeah!” Arthur said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically.

A pause.

“I don't believe you Arthur. How can a man having a seizure in the galley be _alright?_ ”

“Well... it's all sort of pillow-y.”

Silence again.

“Of course,” the voice muttered.

 

John looked down at Sherlock as he stopped moving, mentally rating the seizure among the dozens or so he'd witnessed since learning Sherlock was epileptic. In terms of the seizure itself, not bad, no loss of bladder control or bleeding, but as for the location, that had to be a new level of interesting. John half suspected that Sherlock kept track of seizure locations, some sort of lifelong experiment. It was less than three minutes, and John bet Sherlock would regain consciousness around the ten minute mark, and become lucid around the fourteen minute mark. All there was left to do was wait.

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur poked his head in, ready to open his mouth, but was yanked out by what John suspected was his shirt tail, protesting all the way.

“Arthur, it is still a code red,” Carolyn said firmly.

Arthur sighed. “Alright.” There was the faint sound of him trudging away.

Carolyn poked her head in just as Sherlock was beginning to stir.

“We're doing alright,” he told her. “Although it'd probably be best if you weren't here for this bit. Sometimes he's violent.”

Carolyn frowned, but left, and John could hear the tailwinds of a discussion between her and her son.

 

Thankfully, this time Sherlock was docile rather than violent, entirely content to pet Gladstone's ears with his face, which she graciously allowed.

When he felt steady enough to walk, John helped him to his feet and led him to a seat, where Sherlock soon fell asleep, Gladstone perched protectively in the seat next to him.

John could feel someone watching him, and turned to see Arthur peeping out from behind the curtain that led to the galley.

He smile at him. “Come on,” he gestured.

Arthur's face lit up as he bee-lined over to them and held his hand out hesitantly.

Gladstone gave it an approving sniff and nodded, as if giving Arthur permission to pet her.

Arthur looked to John for approval and he nodded. Arthur's face lit up as he stoked Gladstone, who sighed in appreciation. “Brilliant!” he declared.

“I have a dog, but she's much smaller and sort of ridiculous looking,” he whispered to John, as if telling a secret.

Carolyn suddenly appeared. “I heard that!”

Arthur winced.

“Five more minutes, then we have two lazy pilots who want tea.”

“Righto,” Arthur chirped.

Sure enough, after five minutes, Arthur left without complaint to make tea for the pilot and his first officer, as well as, John suspected, spend some time in the 'pillow-y' galley.

Carolyn watched him go and shook her head.

“We both have our hands full,” she said, winking at John conspiratorially.

“Oh, no...” he began, but it was too late. She was gone.

John sighed and sat in the seat across the aisle from Sherlock and Gladstone.

He shouldn't even bother fighting it anymore, because the truth was, he did.

John smiled at the thought, and closed his eyes, hoping to sleep.

 

The rest of the flight was uneventful, and although the landing was bumpy, they survived it.

Sherlock and John said farewell to the members of MJN air. They would be driving back, and by driving, Sherlock meant one of Mycroft's cars would be.

“That was a seven,” Sherlock informed John as they left the plane.

John grinned stupidly, not even bothering to hide it from Sherlock. “I knew it!” he said triumphantly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, good for you. Now, if it's not a problem with you, I'd like to go to the crime scene and solve the case that we actually came for.”

John looked at Gladstone, who seemed about as exasperated as he was, and shrugged.

“Alright,” he conceded.

“Alright,” Sherlock echoed.

And they were off.

**Author's Note:**

> Caelum Lapsum means 'sky fall'. I had a really hard time titling this one, okay?


End file.
